


Food of Love

by ruric



Category: Leverage
Genre: Community: fic_promptly, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22531612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: Eliot brings control an precision to the kitchen.
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: fic_promptly Fills 2012





	Food of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for yeomanrand's 2012 prompt: Eliot (and or / Parker, Hardison or "and team"), B'stilla, served hot

Control and precision are skills Eliot learned a long time ago and he always brings them into his kitchen. His tools are clean and sharp, knives honed to a razor edge to slice, dice and chop as needed. He’s been busy this morning and the remaining ingredients for the meal he’s preparing are laid out across the flat marble surfaces awaiting his attention. There’s also a neatly stacked pile of dishes by the sink.

His favourite iron pan is set at the back of the stove, filling the kitchen with heavy rich scents that remind him of other countries and different times, conjuring up visions of sand dunes and heat, narrow streets where houses seemed to lean towards each other and the babble of voices in the souk. 

His hands are covered in flour, and he’s pretty sure he’s got a smudge of it across his cheek and some in his hair where its slipped free from the bandana he wears to keep it out of his face when he’s cooking. He can feel sweat pricking his scalp, trickling down the back of neck and between his shoulders as he works the dough between his hands. Roll, knead and roll again. When he’s on a job or a mission he can be patient man, but it’s skill he struggled to bring back to his life at home, until he discovered cooking. There’s something almost zen about making pastry – he’s never quite worked out whether it’s all the kneading or the rolling or the combination of the two but it’s easy to not think, to just be in the moment of feeling the dough beneath his hands. 

He’s jarred out of his moment of contemplation by the rattle of keys in the lock.

“Hey, Eliot, weeeeee’re back,” Hardison sing-songs from the other end of the apartment.

There’s the thud of bags hitting the floor, the solid slam of the door swinging closed and a squeal of glee as Parker’s pelts into the kitchen. For a girl who can move as silently as whisper she sure can make noise when there’s the promise of a tasty meal in the near future.

“What are you cooking?” 

And she’s there pressed up against his pack, the whisper of her breath tickling his ear, her chin resting on his shoulder, her body following the movement of his as he kneads the dough for the final sheet of phyllo.

“B’stillas,” he says, peripherally aware of Hardison - who now moves almost as silently as Parker – sliding into the kitchen to lean against the island, arms crossed, totally at ease watching him.

It used to freak Eliot out a little, how they’d stand there and just watch him cook. Hardison has always been able to rustle up a meal, but he’s a quick learner and Eliot’s impressed with how much Hardison’s picked up just by watching. Parker’s more of a natural disaster in the kitchen and still seems to think cooking is some sort of arcane magic.

Eliot sets the last sheet of phyllo aside and reaches for the skillet and Parker shifts lifting some of her weight from his back, her hands still curled around his hips. She reminds him of a cat, sometimes she’s all closeness and bodily contact, pressing into him, winding long lean limbs around him. At other times she’s all hissing and claws, but then again so was he not so long ago. They’re both less feral these days.

Eliot stirs the contents of the skillet and Hardison’s there, two long strides across the kitchen and he’s standing right next to Eliot, drawn in like a fish on a line by the richness of the scent. 

“Oh my god, are you trying to kill me?”

How a grown man who tops Eliot by a foot in height can manage to make puppy dog eyes work is one of the mysteries of the world.

“Wanna taste?” he says and Hardison’s leer is positively lascivious.

Eliot dips a spoon in the mix and holds it up, and Hardison grabs it and shoves it in his mouth with a contented hum.

“Can we help? Please, can we?” Parker’s almost breathless with enthusiasm.

Eliot slides the stack of phyllo pasty to the centre of the counter and nods to the dish of almond sugar.

“Sure, spread some of that over the pastry.”

Parker reaches for it, a little frown of concentration between her brows as she carefully does as he asked and Eliot turns to Hardison. “You want in on this too?” 

“You bet!” Hardison’s grin is wide and open and honest.

“OK, large spoonful of that on top, but not too much.”

Hardison scoops up some of the chicken mix carefully sliding it onto the pastry and just like that they have their own little production line.

It doesn’t take them long working together to finish the preparation and slide the delicate looking little pies into the oven.

“How long?” Parker asks 

“20 minutes maybe a little bit longer.”

“Ohhh… good.” 

Parker’s grinning at him, nimble fingers at the knots of his chef’s apron, pushing it from him, and Hardison’s there fingers curling over Eliot’s belt buckle pulling him forward away from the kitchen. 

“Bet you never thought this would happen, huh?” Hardison says softly nudging him backwards as they they tumble into the softness of the couch.

And it’s true. 

Eliot never thought he’d cede control in the kitchen, but they’ve already taken over the rest of his life so there’s no reason to keep them out – not of anything – any more.


End file.
